


All I Do Is Cry Behind This Smile

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Panic Attack, weird angst monologue thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months later, Dan isn't coping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Do Is Cry Behind This Smile

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not expecting feedback for this, it's rushed and weird and sad. But it's been two years since I wrote anything and if I don't post this piece right now I fear I'll never break this rut.

Four months.

Four months is an elusive amount. A sliver of time caught just between too long and not long enough. Six months seems more reasonable, more rounded out. If he could just make it to six months. If he could just survive those suns rising and falling, if he could just bear those excruciating hours of silence, things would balance.

Karmic balance, emotional balance; these were beliefs that had kept Dan sane. Everyone has beliefs. Even the ones who believe there is nothing believe it with a certainty that could silence a monk. A monk. Single, solitary. Alone. There was a drum deep in his head resonating that word with each beat.

You’re alone now. It gives rise to thoughts exploding in his mind, like landmines in a war zone. You did eighteen years before, how hard is eighteen more? It’s not the same. You’ll find someone else! But like him? God, you’re a selfish bastard.

The sunlight dances in the mug in front of him. The coffee is cold when it touches his lips. What time is it? How long has is it been now? How long is left? The last four months blur and bang inside his head like church bells. Outside his head is banging too. Oh, that’s a hand. He stares at the treacherous limb. Had he done that? He watches as his fingers vibrate erratically, as if separate entities.

The room catches him by surprise, taking flight all at once, spinning wildly. He is a plastic bag caught in a storm. His breath catches in his throat over and over against futile gasps. His lungs are collapsing inside his ribs. Lightning strikes feel as if they’re shattering his skull into tiny shards. He clutches at his forehead to lessen the agony but the pain is from within.

The panic attack has him down on his knees instantly, as if praying. He wishes he could pray. He wishes he could reverse time. He wishes… Oh God, his treacherous brain, it keeps repeating his name again and again, torturing him. _Phil, Phil, Phil_. He curls into himself at its mercilessness, gripping at his knees but it can’t stop this feeling of falling off the edge of the earth.

It could be minutes, it could be hours. He starts his counting in an attempt to distract the mind. Breathe in, breathe in. Breathe out. Keep trying. No matter how many punches knock the air out he tries again, because his body wills it even if the mind is weak. The mind can’t be trusted. His mind is against him.

When it’s all over, and he’s crawling back under Phil's cold duvet at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, the mug is left on the wooden floor almost as if laid there.

The coffee stains splattered against the couch reveal a different story.

**Author's Note:**

> I lost a friend recently. I didn't actually know what this piece would be when the inspiration hit me. Writing is a funny form of therapy.
> 
> Sorry Phil always gets the short end of the stick. Dan's just more on my level to write. In a funny way I think Phil is too emotionally mature for me.
> 
> Hopefully my next piece will be inspired by a happier muse. I think I'd like to write Dan in love. Shouldn't be too hard, considering we're both in love with Phil.


End file.
